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Which was something. For once, I felt better after a meeting with Hardin, rather than worse.
And this seemed as good a time as any to ask the big question. “Do you want to come on the show? I’d love to interview you. One of the first paranatural cops in the country—”
“No,” she said, glaring and stabbing into her newly arrived plate of french fries with her fork.
Ah well. I couldn’t have it all.
Mercedes Cook resumed her concert tour. The fallout from the public announcement of her vampirism was mixed. She was taken off the cast of the Anything Goes revival. The producers were fairly blunt about not wanting to be a party to the potential irony of having a vampire play the role of evangelizing chanteuse Reno Sweeney.
But her concerts sold out for the remainder of her tour. She added another dozen shows, and those sold out. She was in demand.
I had a feeling the whole performance gig was a sideline for her, and she didn’t much care about getting kicked off the musical, or that her concert popularity was skyrocketing. For her, it was all a means to an end.
I wondered: In how many of those cities on her tour did she inspire mayhem? How many revolutions did she leave in her wake?
And how many others like her moved from place to place for the purpose of manipulating the players on their own personal game boards?
And finally, at long last, the book came out.
Check another one off the “dream come true” list. I got to sign books at the Tattered Cover Bookstore. Awesome.
The late-evening event was totally last minute. I hadn’t planned on it—because I hadn’t planned on being in Denver when we were setting up all the publicity. But, as they often do, the plans changed. And there was the book, in hardcover, with the title blazoned across it: Underneath the Skin. With a cheesy subtitle, “Life and Lycanthropy,” which explained it all, really. The picture was from my trip to D.C. last fall, me walking through the crowd on the last day of the Senate hearings, my face looking up, determined, ready for the battles ahead. I hadn’t felt like that when the picture was taken. I’d felt like I was drowning. Ben in his polished lawyer guise was at my side, calm and ready for anything. He’d helped me get through it.
Better yet, people even showed up. A whole line of them. How cool was that? The line even stretched to the end of the room. A really interesting mix of people made up the gathering. Some of them I expected: a couple of clusters of folks dressed all in black, with stripy stockings, corsets, dyed hair, eyebrow rings, the whole nine yards. They stood right next to people who would have been at home at my parents’ country club. And everyone in between.
I even smelled a couple of vampires and lycanthropes.
Because of that, I wasn’t surprised when the line moved forward and Rick appeared in front of me.
We regarded each other for a long moment.
I spoke first. “Did you get the car back okay?”
“Yes. I even refrained from sending you the cleaning bill for the interior.”
“You mean you didn’t just—”
“Ah, no. I have some dignity left.”
I grinned at him. I had to appreciate a vampire with a sense of humor.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. I’m glad everything worked out.” Meaning: he was glad he didn’t get Ben killed. Me, too.
“So you owe me big-time, right?” He only smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask.”
“What’s the Long Game?”
He considered a moment, glancing briefly around at the line of people waiting to get their books signed, at others who might be listening. I didn’t expect him to actually speak. But he did, his voice low.
“Vampires have long lives. Long memories. Their strategies aren’t planned in terms of years or decades, but in centuries. From the start, they’ve asked the question, how much power can they get? How much can they control—how many lives, how many cities? Can anyone control it all? What would happen if one person—one being—could control it all? That’s the Long Game.”
“Control it all,” I said, baffled at the concept of trying to plan anything past next week. And here we were talking about centuries. “Why? Who’d want to?”
“That is a question I hope I never learn the answer to.” He seemed tired. Sad, maybe. The smile hid pain. “Some of us refuse to be a party to it. We keep our pockets of chaos operating.”
“This isn’t over, is it?”
